Stronghammer's Daughter
by Wrightless Small
Summary: A prophecy...A lie...A father...His daughter...A legacy nearly as old as the empire itself.
1. Prolouge

The rain hit them like a thousand cannon balls; the cold, bitter wind howled in Eragon's ears, it rocked Saphira as she flew through it. Black storm clouds surrounded them, covering the sky with a pitch black blanket. Were it not for Saphira's sight and the seeing ward Eragon had placed around them, they would have been blind. Occasionally the sky would be illuminated by bright, white lightning; tearing the charcoal sky in two.

Fighting against the wind and rain was exhausting; Eragon could already feel his and Saphira's strength depleting. Yet, he knew they could not give up, they could not turn back. For this was no ordinary flight. This was a Hunt.

Though whether they were the hunter or the hunted was a whole different matter.

Their quarry was a creature, an unnamed, an unknown. It had already killed two wild dragons and seriously injured another. Eragon had thought at first that it was a Lethrblaka, the terrifying mounts and parents of the fearsome Ra'zac. Though he and Roran had killed the last of them in Alagësia, it was still possible that they could exist elsewhere.

But, he had completely abandoned this idea when he had caught a glimpse of the creature: Firstly, because it has more batlike in comparison to the Lethrblaka, secondly because it was much, much bigger.

Eragon heard the leathery flap of the creatures giant wings just in time as it dive bombed them from above, a dark shadow shooting through the midnight heavens. Saphira rolled out the way, just in time, the creature's claws scraping her soft belly. She howled in frustration and retaliated by blowing a pillar of hot, blue flame towards the beast. It screamed in pain as it was engulfed in the flames, but the rain soon extinguished the fire.

Wheeling away, it readied itself for a counter attack. The two adversaries stood suspended in the air for a moment, Eragon wiped the blood from his chin. And then suddenly they clashed together; Claws scratching, wings and legs tangling. The monster scraped it claws along Saphira's hind legs. She sank her teeth her teeth into its throat. Bitter blood filled her mouth. Bile rose in Eragons throat, as he too could taste its foul sting. Quickly they disengaged. Saphira was covered in scratches, some mere flesh wounds, others deep enough to cause Eragon some serious worry. Not only that but Eragon himself was injured, he had also not been immune to the bat creatures teeth and claws.

_Maybe we should return to Dras-Ignasia_, Eragon thought, _and return when we are healed and the weather is...more agreeable._

_Abandon a battle! _Saphira snorted with derision, _we are not cowards Eragon and anyway can't you see we have the upper hand!_

Eragon could see. The creature was flapping at an angle, as one of its wings had been slightly crushed and blood coated its fur.

Saphira dived towards the beast, snarling and roaring. The creature shrieked as Saphira sank her fangs into its throat. It tried to struggle away, but its struggles proved fruitless. Finally it let out one final terrifying scream before going limp. Saphira let go of the body, letting it spiral towards the earth.

Eragon slumped forward, letting some of his remaining energy flow into Saphira. She growled

_What are you doing Little One, trying to kill yourself!_

_You need this energy more than I do, we still have to fly back to Dras-Ignasia, _Eragon replied.

_You're still as foolish as when we first met, _Saphira growled back. But she did not protest anymore.

The rain and the wind had lessened, and the sky had begun to clear. Eragon and Saphira soared through the sky, exhausted, but triumphant after their successful battle.

...

Soon they arrived back at Dras-Ignasia, The Bright City. The city Eragon and Saphira had created, their home. It was called The Bright City because at night it was bathed in white light, created by the thousands of were-lights that decorated the City. It was said that these were-lights were created so that no darkness could ever enter the city and harm its residents – Rider and Dragon alike. However, the truth was that Eragon and the head riders had created these lights was to prove visibility around the city during the dark winter months

But, this was not the only reason why it was called The Bright City. It was also given this name because it was seen as a beacon of hope. Not only for dragons and riders, recently many magic wielders had fled Alagësia. Usually because they feared the rules Nasuada had placed around magic or because they refused to pledge allegiance to her. Dras-Ignasia had become a haven to them all.

Saphira flew lower over the city, its massive domes and turrets almost scraping her stomach. She cast a dark shadow over the cobbled streets.

Eventually, they reached the main courtyard, they dipped down and landed. Eragon gripped his saddle tightly as Saphira galloped awkwardly desperately trying to keep her balance. Eragon laughed as he dismounted,

_Still finding landings hard Saphira?_

She growled, _I can also still eat you in one bite Little One, _she said playfully as she butted his head with hers.

All of a sudden Eragons thoughts were inundated with a hundred inquiring thoughts:

_How are you Shadeslayer?_

_Bjartskuler, you are wounded?_

_Do you need a healer?_

_Is the bat monster dead?_

_How did the battle fair? Was it bloody?_

_I have already begun a poem about your deed, Shadeslayer. Should I sing it next feast?_

"Enough!" bellowed Eragon, clutching his head. Immediately his mind was clear. He sighed and stood up. Surrounding him were concerned faces, many of them still wearing their night clothes. "I'm sorry," he said "I'm just tired from the fight". He made his way through the crowd.

"Eragon," a young dwarf approached him, Ulrich, Eragon could see his brown dragon, Dorma, perching on a nearby roof "Is the dragonkiller dead?" he asked.

Eragon nodded wearily. The crowd erupted into cheers, and began hugging and laughing. They were so caught up in their happiness they did not notice Eragon slipping away.

...

Eragon climbed into chambers avoiding all eye contact and brushing of all offers of healing spells and food. When he eventually reached his room he flopped on his bed, exhaustion catching up with him. Not soon after he heard the telltale flap and thump of Saphira entering her adjacent cavern and immediately reached out for him.

_Why don't you join in with the festivities?_ She asked_, Barrett has opened ten new caskets of ale in celebration and the dwarves have promised to play and..._

_I don't want to, _Eragon replied burying his face into his pillow.

_What's wrong Little One?_ Saphira asked concerned.

Eragon got up and went to Saphira's cavern; he could already hear the muffled singing of the dwarves. _I just think it is wrong to celebrate death, _he replied, tickling her chin. Saphira remained unfazed, _it's because it's near that time isn't it? Nearly 15 years since we left them..._

Eragon ignored her; instead he walked around Saphira checking for any wounds that the healers might have missed. _Eragon, don't avoid me! _Saphira said sharply, flicking her tail in irritation. Knowing it was fruitless to try and evade her question any longer, Eragon collapsed against her warm flank, _I just miss her so much; _he rubbed his face before letting out a derisive laugh. _Look at me! I'm behaving like a lovesick teenager; for goodness sake I'm four and thirty years old!_

He leaned against Saphira, her rhythmic breathing was oddly comforting, he felt his eyes grow heavy and his limbs slump...

BANG! BANG! He jerked awake, Saphira growled with annoyance. _If it's someone inviting us to the party, Gûntera help me, I will make them my dinner._

Eragon walked towards the door, waiting outside was a flustered male elf, his red face and rumpled clothes told them that he had come in a hurry. Immediately, Eragon knew something was not right.

"What's wrong?" he asked

"We have – gasp - had word – gasp - from Nasuada," the elf spluttered.

"What? Is it the rebels?" Eragon asked, aware of the troubles Alagësia was facing.

"No, it's – gasp – your cousin – "

"What about him?" Eragon snapped out of his semi-stupor. Roran was the only family he had. If anything had happened to him...

"It's his daughter, it's Ismira. Something has happened." The elf gasped

"What?


	2. Chapter 1

3 Months Earlier

The girl missed the sword by a hair on her head. Literally. As she ducked out of the way she saw three strands of ginger hair flutter to the dusty ground. Her opponent, The Brute, stumbled towards her as gracefully as a charging bull, he flared his nostrils in his disjointed nose broken not so long ago, his piggy eyes stared out at her through his red face. The type of red only accomplished through a lifetime of bar brawls and a daily barrel of rum.

She hardly had time to think before her opponent charged at her again, she feinted the left. Suddenly, she slammed into him, locking her arms and throwing him over her shoulder. Her attacker nosedived into the ground, letting out an almighty grunt as he swallowed a mouthful of dirt.

The stadium around her erupted, stomping their feet and yelling their beery ballads, they were making the temporary amphitheatre shake so much, the girl feared it would collapse into a pile of leather and wood.. In fact they were so loud she almost didn't her opponent trying to sneak up behind her - which was a feat in itself as he was as unsubtle as a herd of Feldûnost. She cart wheeled out the way of his hammy fist, she jumped up and unsheathed her sword. She needed to get this fight started if she wanted to keep her audience interested.

She parried her adversary's first blow, before then wheeling around and hitting him in the back of the leg. She grunted and wheeled around ready to block any more of her blows. But the girl was a step ahead of him, she only needed to land two more blows and she would have won this fight – and the prize money. The audience were almost spilling out of their seats and so were their drinks. Puddles of beer were forming on the ground and the girl had to dodge more than one flying tankard. Unfortunately, her rival was not so quick. A pewter tankard hit him square in the in the head, angering him even more. "I'm surprised that didn't knock out your brains, my dear friend," the girl jeered, "But then again, how can you lose something, you do not have".

The lout roared and charged at her again. The girl dived out the way and went to land a blow again, but all she saw was stars as The Brute punched her squarely in the jaw. The audience let out a collective groan as she lay sprawled on the dirty ground of the stadium.

"Little bug ain't so clever now. Little Bug going to get squashed!" The Brute roared. Ismira spat blood and slowly, but surely she stood up. Even though this guy seemed to have the language skills of a toddler, Ismira had underestimated him, he wasn't a total oaf after all.

Good, it meant she didn't have to feel guilty about beating him to a pulp. "Alright," she said staring into his glassy eyes that peered out under heavy brows, "You want to dance. Let's dance"

They stood their staring at each other, The Brute and The Girl, for a minute or an hour. Time seemed to move like honey, thick and slow.

He ran at her, roaring. She dived to the slide, stirring up a cloud of dust. The Brute turned clumsily. The girl went to roll, but she couldn't. Her belt buckle had gotten snagged in the matting of the stadium floor. She swore in every colour of the rainbow as The Brute approached her, smiling manically, blood dripping down his face. She pulled and pulled but her belt would not give. He was almost on top of her now, she tried to undo her belt but her fingers would not do as they were told, maybe if she... no that would not work. The brute stood above her now, he lifted his sword above his head; the normally raucous audience went silent as he brought it down. A woman screamed. A raven let out a mournful cry.

And he let out a confused grunt. Where the girl had been, there was just a cut belt. He let out of an even more confused grunt as he tried to raise his sword but it remained embedded in the straw matting. What witchcraft was this? Where had the girl gone? What the-? He wondered no more as the girl gave him a swift kick in the balls. He doubled over grunting, the girl stood in front of him proud and unafraid, a true warrior. She lifted her sword and, ever so lightly, tapped him on the shoulder.

The crowd went wild.

The girl laughed as tankards, copper pennies and flowers rained down around her. She curtsied, which only seemed to fuel their enthusiasm even more. The Brute sat behind her in shock, he couldn't understand it, was he just beaten? By a girl? Anger overwhelmed him and he dived for the girl, only to find himself grasping thin air. Then all he felt was a pain in the back of his skull as the girl drop kicked him in the back of the head. His face went slack and he fell to the ground.

"I've always hated sour losers," she muttered.

A marshal came out, dressed in the royal blue of the House of Alagësia, albeit a rather faded royal blue. He carried a rather deflated red cushion in front of him, which he held out at arm's length. The girl fancied that he had the expression of someone permanently smelling something really bad. He presented her with a small bag of gold coins and a small gold model of a sword. "I present thee...uh, the champion of the 7th Annual Therinsford Sword fighting Competition ..."

"Save the speech, mumble-news, give me the bloody reward already," the girl laughed. This produced laughs and gasps from the audience. The marshal's lips pursed like he was sucking an extremely sour lemon. He shoved the money and the trophy into her hands, the girls raised them above her head and let out a spine-tingling battle cry. The audience joined in. Men, women and children cheered for her. It gave her a rush no fight could compare to – everyone was cheering for her.

Well, nearly everyone. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a cloaked figure. His face was all in shadow, apart from a pair of bright, blazing blue eyes that started at her steadily. A large leather cased hand gripped a splintered a hand rail. The girl smiled a sadly. He must have broken it during the fight. When he realised that she might get hurt. Or worse. She scolded herself inwardly; getting hurt was not an option. If she got hurt then everyone would find out who she was and then she would be in a world of trouble. She turned back to the crowd still celebrating their victory. To them she was just a fighter, a victor, entertainment. But, little did they know that the person who had won one of the hardest and dirtiest sword fighting competitions in Alagësia was in fact a lady.

The Lady Ismira of Carvahall to be precise.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Finally Ismira managed to escape the congratulations, the celebrations and the general ecstasy of the crowd. The early summer sky had faded to rose and the shadows stretched out, long and spiky. Ismira ran through the winding, cobbled streets of Therinsford. She ran past the new town hall gleaming in all its white, marbled splendour, she ran along the town's old, decaying defences. Finally she came to the Old Gate, a long-forgotten back door escape out of the town. Its portcullis was frozen with rust and the stones were blanketed with moss. A single dim werelight illuminated the cloaked figure leaning in the shadow of the gateway. Now he was standing, he towered over everyone at over 6 foot; his trunk-like arms were crossed over his barrel-like chest. The old fortification looked like it might topple under his weight.

"A good game milady," the figure said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"I couldn't have done it without you," Ismira retorted scathingly, strutting past the figure. A large gloved hand grabbed hers and pulled her pack sharply.

"You could have been hurt," the figure said gruffly, suddenly changing his tone "Or worse and I wouldn't have been able to help you". His cobalt blue eyes bored into Ismiras skull.

Ismira stared back levelly at the figure with her intense glass-green eyes, "Well first of all I didn't get hurt, secondly I won't ever get hurt so there is no need to worry you pretty little head about that. Thirdly IF I ever get hurt (and that's a big if, my friend) I wouldn't need your help," she raised a single eyebrow, almost challenging her acquaintance to try and prove her wrong.

Instead, the cloaked man let out a rumbling guffaw. Before then slapping Ismiras back so hard she almost toppled over. "I do have to admit it, Hothead, you slaughtered your competition"

"Pur-lease," Ismira snorted, "It was a piece of cake. Especially, the last fight, that oaf had the sword skill of a Urgal – no offence"

"None taken"

Ismira and the cloaked figure had begun to travel down the well worn road together. Ismira taking three bounding steps for every one of the tall figure long, slow strides.

"Don't walk so fast!" Ismira complained, running to keep up with her companion.

He just increased his speed and laughed as Ismira had to practically sprint to keep up. "Sorry, pint-size, not all of us have such twiglet legs"

"THORKAL JUDSSON! I am not a PINT-SIZED!" Ismira cried incredulously, "I'm petite," she added haughtily.

They continued down the road until it narrowed to a dirt track. The cloaked figure pushed through the thickening undergrowth clearing the way for Ismira. Eventually they came to a clearing.

In the middle of the clearing was a small clear pool. Rays of sunlight danced on its surface, while jewelled dragonflies hovered above the water. Occasionally there would be a satisfying 'plop' as a fat, shimmering rainbow trout snapped up some miniscule skimmer bug. A regal heron stood on the opposite side of the pool. Staying utterly still, it regarded the two travellers, before then labouring up into the air.

The only other life in the clearing where two horses, a gentle, plump roan with a white star on its head and a huge blue-black half-shire. As Ismira and the cloaked figure entered the clearing both horses whinnied happily and trotted towards them. The man through back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face, as he embraced his horse.

Ismira stared at her friend. Though his height and his voice were that of a fully grown man, his face was as smooth and young as a teenage boy, he was not even eight and ten years yet. He's straight, thick black hair framed his strong jaw and cheekbones that could cut ice. For a half Urgal, he was quite handsome. The only thing that marred his appearance was the two broken stumps on either side of his forehead, where his horns would have been, had they not been broken off during The Cleansing.

He scratched the nose of Knight, his horse. Ismira smiled at their companionship, she always felt that Thorry and Knight were on the best horse and riders she knew. Probably because they were both half-breeds and orphans. Ismira barely remembered the night, ten long years ago, when her father had brought Thorry home. All she could remember was the storm. It was one of the worst they had for years. Lightening lit up the sky and thunder shook the walls of the house. Ismira had been huddling under the bed when her father staggered in, carrying a grey, bloody bundle in his arms. Her father had found him by the side road, where the "Cleansers" had abandoned him. After they had burned down his house, killed his Urgal father, killed and raped his human mother, after they had beaten him almost senseless, after they had broken both his arms and sawed off his horns. They had left him there by the side of the road to die, and then went on to hurt some other innocent Urgal family. What they did do Thorry, and the other families, made Ismira's blood boil. She swore that she would find out who was responsible and she would make them pay.

Because Thorry was her best friend.

Thorry turned and smiled at Ismira baring his sharp canines. "Hurry up and change Hothead. It's almost dark and it's at least a decent two hour ride to Carvahall." Ismira snapped sharply out of her thoughts and grabbed a small bag tucked under the branches of a knarled tree. She retired behind said tree and began to strip of her sweaty, dirty clothes as Thorry began to saddle up the horses.

A comfortable silence fell over the two friends. The kind of silence that can only happen between very close friends. Thorry entered the rhythmic ritual if saddling a horse, while Ismira tried to do the almost impossible task of taking of her leather leggings without falling over.

"You should have worn your woollen ones," Thorry remarked as their came a telltale *thump* "Ow" came from the bushes.

"They're constricting, I can't fight in them," Ismira retorted

"Oh, really? They didn't seemed to constrict you at all in training yesterday," Thorry called back.

"They also stink to high heaven when they get sweaty," Ismira added

"That's funny. I thought you didn't care much for personal hygiene?" Thorry had to move fast to dodge the boot that flew out from the bushes.

"BASTARD! They're itchy as well!" Ismira yelled

"Uh, huh," Thorry was laughing so hard he was doubled over.

"And they make my bum look big," Ismira added.

"Is that even possible?"

This time Thorry was not quick enough as the second boot glided from the undergrowth and smacked him on the side of his face.

...

Finally Ismira emerged from her improvised changing room. Gone was her shirt, her leggings, her leather jerkin and her boots. In their place was a dark green dress and thigh length riding boots. Gone was the warrior, standing in front of Thorry was a girl. She taken her hair out of its bun and was now raking a white whalebone comb through her unruly red curls, desperately trying to tame them. She had also stuffed her clothes into a small bag along with the trophy and the reward money.

"100 gold pieces. Enough for the entrance fee and rent to the Alagësia games," Ismira said, gently wrapping them up and tucking them into her rucksack. "Even more if we can sell the trophy"

Thorry sighed, "You're really not going to give up on that dream are you?"

"Nope"

Thorry turned to Ismira. "You know if we entered we would lose. We would be up against trained soldiers, assassins, Kulls. We wouldn't stand a chance."

"Gûntera's head, you're so pessimistic. How do you know we'd lose, if we haven't even entered? Also, we're the best fighters in the valley, haven't I proved that today. We've won every competition there is and we have fought in battles"

Thorry sighed, "Yes, we're the best fighters in the valley. But not in Alagësia, also the annual Carvahall mud festival does not count as a battle, as brutal as it may be"

Ismira frowned and stuck out her lip. She turned away and scratched her roan's nose. Finally she said, "We could win, y'know."

Thorry threw down his glove, "For goodness sake Ismira! Why won't you let go of this dream? I can't fight at the Alagësia games! I'm half-Urgal, hated by humans and Urgals. They see me as dirt and scum! So how do you think they'll react when I try to fight!"

"Thorry..."

"And then there's you! You're a woman Ismira!"

Ismira coloured, "They let woman fight!"

"Yes, soldiers. Not ladies and anyway your father wouldn't allow it"

Ismira turned on Thorry, "Oh yes, because my father is the be all and end all. Thorry, if he had his way he would lock me up in a tower and throw away the key. The only reason I'm even aloud out the house is because I have YOU as my personal bodyguard!"

Ismira went to get on her horse, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Ismira?"

Ismira didn't answer. Her stirrups had become incredibly interesting. She stared at them intently.

"Ismira, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for," Thorry said softly.

Ismira looked up and smiled a watery smile. "I'm sorry, I over-reacted. Its late and I'm tired, let's go home"

Thorry smiled and then reached down and scooped up Ismira into a spine-crushing bear hug.

"Offff..." Ismira wheezed as he put her down.

"Come on," Thorry said as he swung one tree trunk leg over Knights large back. But, Ismira had beaten him. Already several yards ahead of him, she turned her head to look back, flashing him a smile that could stop war (or start one). "Race you!" she yelled before she galloping off into the sunset.

Thorry sighed, urging Knight forward, "Your father is going to kill me..."


End file.
